The Poetry of Flowers. 
47 
Beneath the very burthen 
Of planet-pressing ocean, 
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, a thought for 
meek devotion. 
Tears of Phoebus—missings 
Of Cytherea’s kissings, 
Have in us been found, and wise men find them still; 
Drooping grace unfurls 
Still Hyacinthus’ curls, 
And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill ; 
Thy red lip, Adonis, 
Still is wet with morning ; 
And the step that bled for thee, the rosy brief adorning. 
Oh ! true things are fables, 
Fit for sagest tables, 
And the flowers are true things, yet no fables they ; 
Fables were not more 
Bright, nor loved of yore— [pathway. 
Vet they grew not, like the flow’rs, by every old 
Grossest hand can test us ; 
Fools may prize us never— 
Yet we rise, and rise, and rise—marvels sweet for ever. 
Who shall say that flowers 
Dress not Heav’n’s own bowers ? 
Who its love, without us, can fancy—or sweet floor ? 
Who shall even dare 
To say we sprang not there, 
And came not down that Love might bring one 
piece of Heaven the more? 
Oh ! pray believe that angels 
From those blue dominions, 
Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their 
golden pinions. 
